


Propinquity

by orchidcactus



Series: Tarradiddle [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, F/M, Fluff, sprinkling of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidcactus/pseuds/orchidcactus
Summary: propinquitynoun1.   the physical or psychological proximity between people; one of the main factors leading to interpersonal attraction.A figure skater has been brutally murdered. Chloe and Lucifer must solve the homicide while navigating their ever-evolving relationship.ORWhile Lux undergoes repairs, Chloe offers her spare room to Lucifer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fluffy short story is finished; chapters will be posted twice weekly as they come back from beta. This is the sequel to _Malediction_ , which [can be read here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16261310). 
> 
> A huge thanks to Tarysande for the beta! All remaining mistakes are mine.

The figure skater hadn't died easily.

Chloe stands at the edge of the indoor skating rink, facing the center. Lucifer had once said that every crime scene broke her heart; this one was no different.

Eric Midland, Olympic hopeful, age nineteen, lies dead on the ice. A smear of blood trails behind him. He had crawled from center ice, almost making it to the edge. Defensive wounds mar the skin of his hands. Stab wounds cover his torso. A single slice across his throat is crusted with blood. His face is set in a rictus of fear.

Where the blood trail begins, a lone black ice skate lies on the ice.

Ella crouches in the middle of the rink, camera flashing as she photographs evidence. Little numbered placards denote where she's found anything of interest. Chloe steps cautiously onto the ice, shuffling her way out to the forensic tech. Cold leaches up through the bottoms of her boots.

"What do we have, Ella?" she asks.

"First, welcome back!" Ella stands, wrapping her arms around Chloe in an enthusiastic hug. "Your first case since your suspension deserves a little celebration."

"Thanks." Chloe returns the hug, patting Ella on the back. "It's good to be back."

"Lucifer running late?"

"I guess so," she says, releasing Ella. She pulls her phone out, checking her texts. The only message is the outgoing one she sent Lucifer giving him the address of the ice rink.

"Nope! There he is," Ella says, pointing behind Chloe.

Chloe turns so she can see the edge of the rink. Lucifer stands at the entrance, coffee held in one hand. He's eyeing the ice like a cat asked to step in a puddle. She half expects his lips to curl in disgust.

She hasn't seen him since he was discharged from the hospital, and she can't ignore the completely silly way her pulse jumps. They'd had two kisses. Or, she'd kissed him while he was still high on anesthesia. Not exactly the stuff of romance novels. Still...

God, she's acting like a teenager. Shaking her head, she turns back to Ella.

"So. Dead body?"

"Right! Time of death is approximately six a.m. I'll have to compare the injuries to be sure, but I think that," she points at the skate, "is the murder weapon. It belongs to the victim. What a way to go, right?"

"Huh. I didn't think ice skates were sharp enough to stab someone to death. Or was the cause of death the wound to the throat?"

"Preliminary findings? Both. Massive blood loss is COD. And skates would do it if you sharpened the crap out of the toe pick," Ella says. "The toe pick—"

"Is the end of the blade with the teeth. Used for jumps and spins."

"Somebody knows her figure skating!"

"Not really. Just a few years of lessons when I was a kid." Chloe moves over to the abandoned ice skate, stooping down. Sure enough, the toe of the blade has been ground down into a point. Blood coats the blade and is spattered over the boot.

"Premeditated," she murmurs. Someone went through a lot of trouble to commit this murder. She looks at Ella. "Get any prints off of it?"

"Yeah. It looks like there are two separate sets. I won't know who they belong to until I can get back to my lab."

"All right. Send me your report as soon as you can." She looks over at the edge of the rink again, not surprised that Lucifer's nowhere to be seen. Patience isn't his strong suit.

She carefully makes her way back to the edge, giving the body a wide berth. Stepping back on solid ground, she starts for the lobby. She has interviews to conduct.

Halfway there, she isn't shocked to spot Lucifer, still holding the cup of coffee, chatting up an attractive dark-haired woman dressed in jeans and a hockey jersey. Across the back, the jersey reads, 'World's Best Hockey Mom' with a large number twelve beneath the lettering.

Walking up to them, Chloe hears the words, "Poor Eric," and sees the woman gesture helplessly. Lucifer nods seriously, then turns to Chloe.

"Detective," he says, holding out the coffee. "This is Monica Bradley. She knew the deceased."

Chloe's eyebrows lift. Lucifer taking the initiative of interviewing a witness is new. She takes the cup, ignoring that same little flutter of pulse when her fingertips brush Lucifer's, and nods at Monica.

"I'm Detective Decker," she says. "Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Like I told your partner, we—my son, Ricky, and I—were running late this morning. By the time we got here, everything was crazy. We didn't see anything."

"How did you know Eric?"

"Only in passing. He likes—liked—to come in early to rehearse. Ricky's hockey team practices here on Saturday mornings."

"Eric rehearsed every Saturday?"

"As far as I know, he was here every morning."

"How did he seem the last time you saw him?"

Monica shrugs. "Fine, I guess. I didn't talk to him, though. You should talk to Coach Peterson. He's here most mornings."

Chloe nods and fishes a card out of her jacket pocket. "If you think of anything else, please give me a call."

As Monica walks away, Chloe smiles at Lucifer, lifting the coffee in a small salute. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Detective. Feels good to be on a case again, doesn't it?" He pulls out his flask and offers it to her. "Little Irish to start the day?"

"No, I'm good. And, yeah, it does." She sips her coffee and caramel sweetness floods her mouth. He always gets her order right. She smiles at him. "Kind of a big deal, our first case back together. How are you feeling?"

"Fit as a fiddle. Right as rain. And several other idioms I can't think of but most certainly apply."

"Good. Come on," she says.

He puts away the flask and walks beside her toward the lobby.

"What was that, you not wanting to walk out on the ice?" she asks.

He grins. "The only slipping and sliding I'm interested in involves oil and—"

She holds up a hand. "Forget I asked."

The lobby is full of kids, some of whom are crying. The entire junior hockey team dubbed, The Bears, had stumbled onto the body. Uniformed officers talk to parents, and take statements. Chloe catches one of the officers by the arm.

"Which one is Coach Peterson?"

The uni points out a tall man wearing a jersey, standing near the far wall. Chloe starts threading her way through the crowd of children, Lucifer trailing behind her. She knows if she looks, she'll see a disgruntled expression on his face. Trixie is the only child he puts up with.

"Coach Peterson? I'm Detective Decker. I need to ask you some questions."

"Allen, please," he says, rubbing a hand over his face. "Who could have done something like that? Eric was a great kid."

"You knew him well?"

"Not well, but he practiced here every morning, same as my teams. I coach pee wee league on Saturdays and Thursdays, and the others the rest of the week."

"It's just a formality, but where were you at six o'clock this morning?"

"In bed," he says. "My wife can vouch for me."

"Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Eric?"

"No, like I said, he was a great kid. Very passionate about his work."

"Eric would have had a coach. Do you know who that was?"

"Yeah. Tracy Campbell. I have her contact information..." He pulls out his phone, tapping the screen. "Here."

Chloe makes a note of the number, handing over another of her cards with her standard request to contact her if he thinks of anything.

She turns around and looks at the kids.

"Surely, we don't have to talk to all of them," Lucifer says. He looks vaguely horrified at the idea.

"No, we'll let the unis get their statements."

"Oh, thank Dad."

She resists the urge to laugh at the relief on his face.

"Come on. Let's go see what Eric's coach has to say."

They make their way back through the crowd, heading outside. After the chill inside the skating rink, the gentle warmth of the November sun is welcome. Chloe tips her head back, soaking it in for a minute. Then she unlocks the car and climbs behind the wheel. She glances at Lucifer.

"You look good."

His eyebrows raise. "Why, thank you, Detective."

"I mean, since the hospital. You looked … you look like you've healed..." she trails off, awkwardly. Of course, he's healed. Without her around he would have been up and around in a day, despite being skewered.

"I have."

She puts a hand on his arm. "I'm glad. That's what I'm trying to say."

He smiles, and it's the one he reserves just for her. "As am I."

She clears her throat, changing the subject as she starts the car and pulls out of the ice rink parking lot.

"How are the repairs to Lux coming?"

"Too slowly for my tastes." He adjusts a cufflink, annoyed.

"When do they think you can move back into the penthouse?"

"A week, approximately. The water damage was the worst of it upstairs. Piano and the furniture were a total loss."

She almost asks if he has insurance. Then it hits her that she's having a conversation with the actual Devil about water damage, of all things. She swallows a laugh.

"What?" he asks, looking at her.

"Nothing, I just had a stray thought."

"Hmm. Well, I'm hardly homeless."

"I have a spare bedroom." She isn't sure why she says it; it sort of pops out. Maybe she's losing her damn mind. She plows ahead, staring intently on the road. "You know, if you don't feel like making that long drive, you could stay with us."

There's a long beat of silence and she thinks maybe she's made a mistake, when he says, "Stay with you and Beatrice?"

"Why not? It's only for a week."

"Let's see, shall we? A month ago you were reduced to … _coping_ whenever I made mention of my other side. Now you want to invite me into your home."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm doing fine." She is, too. She hasn't derailed recently. "You're my partner and my friend. That's what friends do; they help each other out."

She doesn't think too hard about kissing him, and what that means for their friendship.

"I see," he says, hesitantly.

"Look. Just think about it, okay? The offer's there if you decide to take it."

*

They pull up in front of Tracy Campbell's house and Chloe turns of the car. The ice skating coach lives in a small, white ranch home, with rose bushes framing a porch complete with wicker furniture and a swing.

Chloe takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Notifying friends or family of a loved one's death is never easy.

Together, she and Lucifer walk to the front door. He hangs back while she knocks, and soon they hear the sound of a deadbolt being turned. The door cracks open and a woman stares out at them. She's shorter than Chloe, probably only five-foot even, and she's petite. Her hair is done up in a bun, and she isn't wearing makeup.

"Tracy Campbell?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Decker with the LAPD; this is my partner Lucifer Morningstar. May we come in?"

"The police? Of course. Come in. Is everything okay?" she says, opening the door. She leads them into a tidy living room, gesturing at the couch while she takes a seat in an opposite chair. Chloe sits, but Lucifer goes to the room's fireplace, examining the photos on the mantle.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news. Eric Midland was found dead this morning."

Tracy looks like she's been slapped. She reels back, face paling as she covers her mouth with both hands.

"That's impossible. I called him this morning. He was fine!"

"I'm sorry to have to deliver this news to you."

"Oh, God," she says, tears welling up in her eyes. "Found dead. What does that mean? Was he..."

"Murdered? Yes, that's our assumption." She softens the blow. No way she's going to tell this woman that her student was stabbed fifteen times with an ice skate.

The tears spill from Tracy's eyes and she reaches for a tissue on the end table beside the chair. "Who could do such a thing? Eric was a good kid."

"We don't know yet, but I promise we won't rest until we find his killer." She pauses. "I do need to ask you some questions."

Tracy nods, and Chloe goes over her routine questions. When she gets to the question about Eric having any enemies, Tracy hesitates.

"Things have been tense, lately, between Eric and another skater, Paul Mitchell. They're competing for the same Olympic slot. Last week, I walked into an argument they were having. It wasn't pretty. I think if I hadn't shown up when I did, it would have come to blows."

Chloe makes a note of the name and gets a phone number for Paul, but no address; Tracy says he's recently moved. Chloe's about to stand up, offer her condolences again, and say her goodbyes when Lucifer speaks up.

"Is this Eric?" he asks, pointing to a framed photo on the mantle. The picture shows two young boys on ice skates, mugging for the camera. They're on an outdoor rink, and from their ruddy complexions and thick winter coats, it's cold where the photo was taken.

"Yes, and Paul. On a trip to a competition in Colorado. They were close, once." She shakes her head, and fresh tears threaten.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Chloe says gently, standing. She and Lucifer show themselves out, the door closing on the sound of Tracy sobbing in earnest.

Chloe blows out a breath. Never gets any easier. She looks at Lucifer as they get into the car. "That was good, with the picture."

"Thank you, Detective." If he doesn't preen a little at the compliment, she'll eat her jacket. "Back to the precinct, then?"

"Yeah. I want to go over the statements the unis took from the ice rink, and call Paul Mitchell in to answer some questions."

A companionable silence settles over the car. Chloe mulls over the connection between Eric and Paul. Lucifer turns on the radio and taps his fingers against the armrest. She glances at his profile as he watches the scenery go by. It hits her that this feels like _before_. It feels right.

"What?" Lucifer asks, looking at her.

"Hmm?"

"You were smiling, just then."

She was. Still is.

"I just … I missed this." She takes one hand off of the wheel and gestures. "Us. Working together."

His smile is gentle, softer than she's seen in a while. "So have I."

*

The rest of the day passes slowly, time crawling. A new case means a new pile of paperwork to complete. Plus, there are the statements from the children at the ice rink. Lucifer fidgets in the chair beside her desk as he tries to help, sipping from his flask, messing with his cufflinks. He's slung his jacket over a nearby chair and his face is set in resignation.

Chloe finally takes pity on him. "I know you don't like paperwork. I can handle this on my own."

"Oh, thank Dad," he says, pushing the pile of statements away from himself. "Much more of that and I might have died from boredom."

"You could try calling Paul Mitchell again. I didn't have any luck."

"He's likely burying his blood-soaked leotards."

"That's what I'm afraid of. We have to get an address. I checked his DMV records, but he hasn't updated his license with his new address yet."

She finishes with the statement she's been reading—another identical account from a scared seven-year-old, stumbling onto the ice and seeing Eric's body—and starts with the next.

"Hold on," she says. "This one's different."

"How's that?"

"One of the kids complained about the ice. It looks like the Zamboni driver didn't show for work this morning. Josh Hastings. Got an address for him, too." She checks the time. "He'll keep for tomorrow or Monday. I have to get home to Trixie."

Lucifer stands, picking up his jacket. As they walk to the elevator together, he shrugs back into it. "How is the spawn's arm?"

'Good," she answers, pushing the button for the parking level. "She complains about the cast itching, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

"And Daniel?" He concentrates on his buttons, smoothing the front of the jacket when he's done.

She glances at him, wondering about the sudden concern for Dan. "He's fine, too. Should be back to work in another three weeks."

"Oh, make no mistake. My interest has to do more with his restocking the refrigerator than his actual health."

Right. Because the Devil has a sweet tooth and can't resist screwing with Dan. She chuckles. The elevator stops and they walk out through a set of double doors to the parking lot.

"Were you serious, earlier?" Lucifer asks when they reach her car.

"Serious about what?" She unlocks the car door and swings it open, turning to look at him.

"About my staying with you."

It catches her off guard, but she's always been adaptable. She manages not to look surprised. "Yeah. Of course, I was serious."

"We haven't had the conversation you mentioned we ought to have."

"I know. But you're my friend, Lucifer."

He mulls this over for a moment.

"I'll take you up on it. I don't fancy making that drive in traffic every day." He gestures vaguely in the direction of his temporary living quarters. "The penthouse will be habitable soon."

"Good!" she says, then realizes how it sounds. She smiles. "I mean, you're always welcome."

"Right," he says. "I'll pop by after I've picked up a few things."

As he walks away, toward his Corvette, she wonders what she's let herself in for.


	2. Chapter 2

Trixie meets Chloe at the door when she gets home, running to her for a hug. Her cast doesn't slow her down in the least. Chloe bends down and wraps her arms around her little girl. Days when she catches a case are the hardest to process. Today is no exception.

"Hey, Monkey." She looks over Trixie's head at Olga. The older woman collects her knitting. "Were you good for Olga?"

Olga nods as she comes to the door. "She was." She says a curt goodbye and closes the door behind her.

"Good." Chloe gives Trixie another squeeze and releases her. "You know what that means."

"Ice cream after dinner?"

"Ice cream after dinner."

Chloe pulls off her boots, placing them beside the door, and then heads for the kitchen to get dinner ready.

"What do you think, Trixie-babe? It's Saturday. You want mac-n-cheese for dinner?"

Trixie nods enthusiastically and comes around the counter to help. She pulls a pot from the cupboard, puts it in the sink, and stretches to her full height to reach the faucet. While the pot fills, she looks at Chloe.

"Did you have a good day, Mommy?"

How does she answer that? "Someone hurt a nice man, and that made me feel bad."

"But you're going to catch whoever did it, right?" She sets the pot on the stove, watching as Chloe lights the burner.

"Right."

"That's good."

"I have a surprise, too."

Trixie's eyes light up. "Is it chocolate cake?"

"Hey, you're getting ice cream after dinner!" Chloe smiles as she says it. "Now you want cake, too?"

The little girl giggles. "Yes!"

"Sorry, it's not cake," she says. "You know how Lucifer's penthouse got ruined by the fire?"

"Yeah. I saw it on the internet."

"Well, he's going to stay with us for a few days until his home is all fixed up again."

Trixie's excited expression clouds over. "In Maze's room?"

It's something she hasn't come to terms with yet, the whole Maze situation. She'd been hurt beyond words by Maze's harsh outburst, but that doesn't mean the little girl doesn't still love her. Love isn't as simple as turning off a switch. Truth be told, it's something neither of them has come to terms with.

"Just for a few days. Then he'll go home."

"That's … okay." Trixie nods seriously. Then she grins, shifting gears without missing a beat. "It'll be like a sleepover!"

"Sort of, yeah."

The water on the stove starts to boil, and Chloe gets the macaroni out, pouring it into the water. She wonders again if she's lost her mind by offering Lucifer her spare room.

"Do you have to go to work tomorrow?" Trixie asks. "Does Lucifer?"

"Yeah, Monkey, we do. I promise when this case is over, I'll take a few days off."

Trixie, reassured by the promise, changes the subject to school and her classmates. She chatters on as Chloe finishes the macaroni and cheese, heaping two bowls with cheesy goodness. They sit on bar stools beside each other to eat, Trixie now filling Chloe in about the new _Dumbo_ movie coming out.

They're finishing washing the dishes when they hear a knock on the door. Chloe picks up a dishtowel, drying her hands as she nods her permission for Trixie to open the door.

"Lucifer!"

He stands in the open door, garment bag over one shoulder, and a small overnight bag and a bottle of wine in the other hand. Trixie wraps her good arm around his legs, grinning up at him.

"Hello, child." He shuffles inside. "How is your arm?"

"It's good. The cast makes it itch a lot, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

"So your mother told me."

Chloe takes pity on him, and, coming around the counter, closes the door. "Trixie, let Lucifer have his legs back."

Trixie releases him and steps back, still grinning. "We're going to have ice cream and watch movies. Do you want to watch the _Incredibles 2_ with us?"

"Trixie-babe, let him get settled in, okay? You can get the movie set up." She looks at Lucifer and gestures toward the stairs. "You're in Maze's old room."

"She leave anything of interest behind?" he asks, making his way up the stairs. Chloe hears the door open, and he adds, "Well, hello, there..."

She knows there's nothing left in the room, that he's only seeing if he can get a reaction. She rolls her eyes and walks to the couch. Trixie has taken one end of it, snuggled into a nest of blankets. The little girl looks entirely too innocent, and Chloe suspects this is an attempt to put her and Lucifer closer together.

"I'll get us ice cream," she says, heading back to the kitchen.

Lucifer comes down the stairs, carrying the bottle of wine. He's taken off his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up. He sets the wine on the counter and walks around to her side.

"Do you have caramel syrup?" he asks. "Love that stuff."

"Yeah, check the cupboard above the fridge."

He doesn't even have to stretch to reach it, and Chloe shakes her head as she dishes ice cream into bowls.

"What?" he asks.

"Did you choose the way you look? When you came to this plane?" She keeps her voice down in case Trixie is eavesdropping. "Or did you look like you before?"

He slides his bowl closer, setting down the syrup, and considers the question. It evidently brings up unpleasant memories because he frowns. "Yes, I chose how I appear. Before Hell, I was a being composed of light."

Her mind short-circuits a little at that. She really hadn't pictured him as being anything but the Lucifer she knows.

"Why?" he asks, cautiously.

"Just … I don't know. Curious as to why you'd choose to look the way you do? You could have looked like anyone. Why a six-foot-three … you? "

He laughs, the tension broken. "Have you seen me? Why wouldn't I want to look like me?"

It's a point she has to concede.

"And the accent?"

"Why not?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?"

"If you prefer." He picks up the caramel syrup and drizzles it over his ice cream. "Any other questions you're dying to ask?"

There are, but she doesn't want to ruin the pleasant mood that's settled over them. There will be time for conversations later.

"No, not right now. Right now we get to watch a movie with Trixie."

Chloe picks up her bowl and Trixie's, and heads for the living room. She takes the middle seat on the couch, not missing the way her daughter grins at her. She curls her legs up, feet on the couch toward the empty spot, and when Lucifer sits down, her feet rest against his thigh. Warmth bleeds through his pants into the soles of her feet.

"I can scoot over," she says, starting to move.

"Not to worry, Detective." He stops her with a light touch on her ankle, there and gone before she registers that he's touched her.

Then Trixie starts the movie, and the three of them settle in to watch two hours of animated super-heroes and villains battling it out. Before the credits roll, Trixie has fallen asleep, and Chloe feels herself starting to drift a little.

She's startled awake by a warm weight on the ankle he'd so briefly touched earlier. Lucifer rests his hand on her.

"You're falling asleep," he says, softly. His thumb makes a slow arc over the bone of her ankle.

"Sorry." She doesn't move, but she's wide awake now. It's usually her touching Lucifer, not the other way around.

He doesn't reply, only moves his hand down to her foot, still doing those slow arcs. Then his grip shifts and he runs his thumb over the sole of her foot. She twitches from the unexpected contact.

"Is this all right?" he asks, pausing.

It's better than all right. "Just a little ticklish. You don't have to stop."

He chuckles, and shifts in his seat to face her more fully. Then he uses both hands and begins to massage in earnest. His thumbs work the ball of her foot, digging into muscle and tendon she didn't know were sore. Then he makes his way to the arch of her foot, easing the tension there. Her heel is next; a slow, steady rise and fall of pressure. Then he starts on her other foot.

The groan Chloe almost lets out would have likely been obscene. She bites the inside of her cheek, concentrating on not waking up Trixie.

"Are you certain you're all right?" he asks. This time he doesn't stop.

"Yeah. Just feels good."

"I am good with my hands," he practically purrs the words out, teasing her.

She laughs, a little too loudly, because Trixie stirs in her blanket cocoon.

"Mommy? I'm tired."

"Right. Let's get you to bed." She regretfully pulls her feet from Lucifer's grasp, swinging them to the floor. She helps Trixie unwrap herself, to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and then off to bed.

By the time she's done, Lucifer is in the kitchen, filling two wine glasses. She doesn't recognize the label on the bottle, but knowing him, it cost as much as her rent several times over.

"You know, you don't have to break out the good stuff for me." She leans against the counter, facing him across it.

"And suffer the swill you drink?" The _I bloody think not_ is implied and Chloe smiles and shakes her head. She takes a drink.

"This is good." It's sweet, but not overly so, smooth, without any bitterness … and of course he's figured out her taste in wine.

He lifts his eyebrows and smirks proudly over his glass like he's heard her thoughts.

She reroutes the conversation. "Tomorrow, we'll try to get in touch with Paul Mitchell again. I put a BOLO out on him."

"You think he murdered poor Eric to eliminate competition for the Olympic slot?"

"Don't know. But it's a possible motive."

She swirls her wine and takes another drink. It's damn good, not that she'll admit as much to Lucifer.

"And," she continues, "we have to talk to the Zamboni operator. Both would have had opportunity. There are also financials to go over. Paperwork."

He looks pained at the word, draining the wine in his glass. His Adam's apple bobs and she catches herself watching his throat like some sort of creeper. Definitely acting like a teenager. She shakes her head again.

"Don't worry, I don't expect you to help with that. You can raid the vending machine or the fridge or chat up the unis or whatever it is you do while I do paperwork."

"Very generous of you." He moves to top off her glass. She puts a hand over it.

"That's it for me. Early morning tomorrow." She pushes away from the counter. "You're welcome to watch TV or use my laptop if you're not tired."

He nods, refilling his glass. "Thank you, Detective. I'm sure I'll manage. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Lucifer," she says.

*

The next morning Chloe wakes before her alarm to the smell of coffee and cooking food. Her stomach rumbles. She folds back the covers and swings her feet to the floor, heading downstairs in her ratty old sweats and baggy t-shirt. As she comes down the stairs, she sees Lucifer and Trixie, the former cooking and the latter sitting on a bar stool with one elbow on the counter, her cast cradled in her lap. Lucifer wears Chloe's 'Kiss the Cook' apron over his shirt; Trixie is still in her pajamas.

Lucifer pours a cup of coffee from her French press, handing it to her. She wraps her palms around the mug, letting it warm her palms.

"Mommy! Lucifer is making something new. They're called crêpes. He showed me how to crack eggs with one hand."

True to what Trixie said, the oven light is on, and a stack of crêpes warms inside. Lucifer is busy pouring batter from a bowl onto the flat pan. The batter sizzles at it hits the pan's surface. Chloe feels her stomach rumble again.

"Your spawn promises to be quite the chef someday."

"I want to be the first President of Mars," Trixie says. "But maybe I can be a chef, too."

Chloe sets her coffee down and hugs Trixie from behind, kissing her cheek, watching as Lucifer monitors breakfast. It doesn't surprise her he knows his way around the kitchen. Gluttony is one of the more pleasurable sins.

"You didn't have to do this, Lucifer," she says. Then as an afterthought, "Did I even have the stuff to make crêpes?"

"It was either this or that dreadful boxed cereal you allow the child to eat," he says. "And I went out for a few things. Frozen strawberries do not belong in a proper crêpe. Neither does whip cream from a spray can. Only one thing that's good for."

"Hot cocoa?" Trixie asks.

"Yeah. Hot cocoa," Chloe says. She gives Lucifer a warning glare. He grins at her widely.

She comes around the counter, peering at the stove top. A pot of strawberry sauce simmers one burner, while on another, a pot of melted chocolate sits. A bowl on the counter holds what looks like fresh whipped cream.

"Last one," Lucifer says as he carefully slides a spatula under the crêpe, flipping it skillfully. He dons an oven mitt, pulling the plate out of the oven. Closing the door, he adds the last crêpe to the stack. With a flourish, he sets the plate beside the whipped cream and retrieves the strawberry sauce and chocolate.

Taking a clean plate from the cupboard, he begins to assemble the first crêpe, filling it with strawberries and cream before folding the confection with delicate little movements. He uses a spoon to drizzle chocolate over the crêpe. Then he slides the plate across the counter to Trixie, starting the process over again with Chloe's. He hands her the plate with another wide grin.

"Eat it before it gets cold," he says.

Chloe's first bite makes her close her eyes involuntarily. The crêpe is light and fluffy, the berries sweet without being overpowering, and the cream is flavored with a touch of vanilla. The chocolate is a semi-sweet counterpoint.

"Oh, my—"

"Devil?" Lucifer supplies.

Trixie giggles. "It's good, right, Mommy?"

"Very."

Lucifer has fixed his own plate. Chloe doesn't miss that he puts extra chocolate on his.

"You have such a sweet tooth. How do you stay so..." She gestures at him.

"Calories don't count when you have a devilish metabolism."

"Of course they don't." Meanwhile, she'll have to practically live on her treadmill to work off this breakfast.

They eat in comfortable silence. Chloe thinks—not for the first time—how domestic this feels. How normal.

She finishes her crêpe. Trixie scrapes her plate with her fork, licking the last bits of cream and strawberries from the tines. Lucifer helps himself to seconds.

"All right, Trixie-babe, go brush your teeth and get dressed. Olga will be here soon."

Trixie looks like she might plead for more time with them, but Chloe shakes her head, and the little girl hops off of her bar stool, trotting to the bathroom.

"I'll start the dishes," Chloe says, getting up.

"No need. I'll do them while you change."

Not about to argue with that, Chloe smiles. She touches his arm. "I could get used to this."

His answering smile is open and honest, and she's grateful that learning the truth about him didn't ruin this.

"Detective, I—"

Her phone rings. It's the precinct.

"Hold that thought," she says, answering. It's the desk sergeant with a message for her. A patrol unit has just picked up Paul Mitchell.


	3. Chapter 3

Paul Mitchell is an attractive brown-haired, blue-eyed man with the build of, well, a figure skater. Right now he sits in the interrogation room, stewing, while Chloe and Lucifer watch him through the one-way glass. They've turned the thermostat up, and it's obviously having an effect; small beads of sweat gather at Paul's hairline. His red-rimmed eyes dart around the room, and he occasionally scrubs his hands over his face.

"He's been in there an hour," Chloe says. She taps the case file against the palm of her hand. "You ready to talk to him?"

"Quite ready," Lucifer says. He's been bored and fidgeting most of the time they've been waiting, adjusting his cufflinks and drinking from his flask.

"Let's go." She leads the way, opening the interrogation room door. As she does, Paul hurries to his feet, looking between her and Lucifer nervously.

"Am I under arrest?" he asks.

"Have a seat, Paul. We need to ask you some questions about Eric Midland." She sits down opposite him, placing the file on the table.

"Eric's dead." Paul lowers himself back into his chair. "Do I need a lawyer?"

"That's your right, but all we're doing now is asking a few questions. You're not under arrest."

He nods, slowly. "All right. What can I tell you about Eric?"

"For starters, you can tell us about your relationship with him."

"He was my friend. My good friend."

"Really? His coach, Tracy Campbell, said she walked in on a pretty serious argument the two of you were having."

"So, we had an argument. Friends argue. Doesn't mean I killed him."

Lucifer shifts in his chair. "Or you were taking him for a little Biellmann spin on the side?"

Paul shakes his head. "It wasn't like that. We were just friends."

Chloe shoots Lucifer an exasperated glance, which he ignores. She opens the folder, running a finger down the inside crease to hold the file open. A neat stack of paperwork and statements makes up the bulk of the contents. Glossy eight-by-ten crime scene photographs lay on top.

Paul stares at the file. "Oh, God. Is that...?"

"Eric." Chloe starts laying the photos out edge to edge on the table. In the quiet of the room, they make a soft flicking noise as she sets each of them down.

Paul jerks back in his chair. He looks away, color draining from his face. "Please, I don't … Don't make me look at those."

"Why not?" Lucifer asks. "Not a fan of your own handiwork?"

"I didn't do that!" He glances at the photos again and turns paler still. "Jesus, what happened to him?"

Chloe taps the last photo in the line. "He was stabbed eleven times and had his throat cut with this ice skate."

"Oh, God!" Paul repeats.

"My father had nothing to do with this, I assure you."

Chloe leans forward in her chair. "There were two sets of prints on that skate. We haven't been able to match one of them in our database. Would you consent to having your prints taken?"

"My fingerprints," he says. "No … I … don't think so."

"Mind telling me why not?" Chloe asks. "If you're innocent, you have nothing to worry about."

Paul crosses his arms over his chest. "I think I want a lawyer, now."

*

"What do you think?"

Chloe leans against the wall, watching Lucifer raid the vending machine. He has the door open, cash in hand, as he peruses the snacks inside.

"Do you mean, what is my Devil's intuition telling me? Is my spidey sense tingling?" He picks out a white package—Devil Cremes, naturally—and after tucking his money in the slot, swings the door closed.

"No, just good, old-fashioned gut feelings here, Lucifer."

"Refusing to provide his fingerprints certainly seems suspicious." He tears open his snack cakes, taking one out of the package. When he bites into it, he gives a pleasurable sigh.

"His reaction to the crime scene photos seemed like someone who's innocent." She looks at the cake in his hand. "I don't know how anyone who insists spray whipped cream doesn't belong in a crêpe can eat that crap."

He grins at her. "Just can't help myself."

Together, they walk back to her desk. The precinct is quiet, even for a Sunday. A few uniformed officers wander around, but, other than that, the place is abandoned. Chloe takes her chair, while Lucifer slumps gracefully in his normal seat.

Chloe pulls a stack of papers from the case file, setting them on the corner of the desk between them. "Eric's bank and phone records for the past month."

"Paperwork." He's finished his snack and wads up the wrapper, tossing it into the trash.

"Yep. Be a big help if you'd go through it with me."

He sighs, unbuttoning his jacket, and folding it over the back of a nearby chair. "Very well. But you're harshing my post-cake high."

"Noted." She splits the stack of papers, putting half in front of Lucifer, and starts looking through her share. They're an hour into it when Lucifer's phone rings.

He frowns at the screen, standing up and walking away to answer it. Chloe flips the page she's working on to the 'finished' stack on her desk. Then she starts on a fresh sheet. Nothing of interest catches her eye. Eric ate a lot at a place called 'Luigi's,' but that hardly constitutes a lead.

Lucifer returns to her desk, and his expression can only be called perturbed.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check, Detective. There's a bit of a situation at Lux with the contractors."

"On a Sunday?"

"I am paying them an exorbitant amount of money." He picks up his jacket, slipping it on and buttoning it. "No need to worry about driving me; I'll call a cab."

Chloe marks her place with a ruler, shaking her head. "I can work on these at home. I'll give you a ride."

"You're certain?"

"It's no trouble. Trixie will be glad we're home early," she says, rolling her chair away from the desk while sliding the stacks of financial paperwork back into the case file. "Unless you need some time alone? I know Trix overwhelms you."

"She does not 'overwhelm' me. I ran Hell, Detective, I can manage one small child."

"Okay," she says, standing up, pushing her chair in. "I'll remind you of that the next time she's clinging to your legs like a barnacle."

He doesn't reply, only straightens his cufflinks, and Chloe has to stifle a laugh at his expression of nonchalance.

*

As they pull up to the alley beside Lux, Chloe thinks the nightclub looks better than the last time she saw it. The scorch marks are gone from above the main doors, the grime has been cleaned from the sidewalk outside, and someone has picked up the crime scene tape.

"What sort of situation are the contractors having?" she asks, getting out of the car, waiting for him to walk around to her side.

"A delivery in the penthouse requiring my signature, apparently." They walk to the doors together, Lucifer motioning for her to go in first.

Inside is organized chaos. The fire had gutted the nightclub; a complete restoration was underway. The walls have been stripped to the studs underneath, and workers rip out burned timbers, replacing them with new. The sound of hammers and a saw are loud enough Chloe almost covers her ears. The smell of smoke still hangs heavy in the air.

She leads the way to the elevator, waiting until the doors close before speaking. The construction noise is still obvious, but at a lower volume. She presses the button for the penthouse.

"How long until the club can reopen?"

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, frowning. "A month, possibly."

"At least the fire didn't reach the upper floors."

"The water damage was enough. I'm told there was an 'issue' with the sprinkler zoning. They shouldn't have gone off upstairs. More of that bloody curse in action, I expect."

The elevator stops and the doors open, and Chloe is greeted by the smell of fresh paint. One worker repairs stonework near the bedroom, while another is busy resetting large marble tiles on the floor. All of the furniture is missing, as is the piano. The emptiness has an echoing quality that reminds her too much of when she'd arrived to find everything covered in dust cloths.

In the middle of the room, a group of men in coveralls stand around a large wooden crate. Chloe thinks they're movers at first, but then she sees the back of one of their uniforms. It bears the image of a piano and the single word, 'Philippe's.'

"Mr. Morningstar?" One of the men comes forward, clipboard in hand. The name on his coveralls says, 'Chuck.' "With Philippe's compliments."

"I'll be sure to thank him for his generosity," Lucifer says, as he takes the clipboard and signs. The other men around the piano start unwrapping it. "And the tuner?"

"Will be by in a week, after the piano has a chance to adjust to the humidity of its new home."

"Very well," he says, turning to Chloe, gesturing at the crate. "I'd like to see it set up."

"A new piano?" she asks, as the men start prying open the wooden box. Inside, the piano is wrapped in moving blankets. She wonders how they got it through the elevator doors.

Chuck overhears her. "Not just any piano. A refurbished 1902 Steinway Grand O."

Lucifer watches the process like it's the shroud removal from a priceless artifact. Which it might be. Whoever Philippe is, he must owe Lucifer a big favor.

Lucifer glances at Chloe. "I'd offer you a drink, but..." He gestures at the empty shelves. "Haven't had a chance to restock."

"I'm good," she says.

The men finish unwrapping the piano, and Chloe can't help but smile at the expression on Lucifer's face. He looks like a kid at Christmas. The piano is beautiful; its ebony satin finish gleams; Steinway & Sons is painted in small letters above the keys.

Grand pianos are apparently moved without their legs attached, which makes sense. She and Lucifer watch as the legs are reattached, and the piano is righted. Chuck sets the bench in front of it, and runs a cloth over the lid, grinning at Lucifer.

"All yours," he says.

After tipping the men generously and sending them on their way, Lucifer flips up the lid on the Steinway. He sits and immediately begins picking out the first notes to Heart and Soul, grinning at her. She feels that same warm sensation in her chest.

"Anything you'd like to hear, Detective?" he asks as the notes trail off.

She walks over to the piano, sitting on the bench beside him. Lucifer doesn't take requests; he plays as the mood takes him. The warmth in her chest spreads. "Don't suppose you're a fan of _The Devil Went Down to Georgia_?" she teases.

"I loathe that song," he says, narrowing his eyes at her. Then, obligingly, he starts playing the opening notes.

"Ugh. Please don't." She puts a hand on his arm to stop him. "Um, I don't know. Surprise me."

"Very well." He starts to play without hesitation, and she immediately recognizes the music. _Starships_.

"Nicki Minaj?" She laughs.

"You said to surprise you, Detective."

The song is catchy and upbeat, and she rocks to beat, bumping her shoulder against his occasionally. He smiles at her, and his expression is so open it makes her heart ache a little. Three weeks ago they'd gone through hell, but things between them are good right now.

When he's finished, he doesn't stop playing, only shifts into another song. This time Chloe can't identify it. No, that's not right. She does know it. She listens to a few more bars, tilting her head. The title and lyrics are on the tip of her tongue.

"What is it?"

His only answer is a quick smile and a shake of his head. She'll have to figure it out on her own.

"Another?" he asks when he finishes with the song—and it's going to drive her nuts trying to remember the name of it. "Surely, you desire to hear something. I'm told my playing is divine."

She rolls her eyes and gives him the smile he's looking for, then checks the time, and shakes her head. "Can I take a rain check? It's getting late."

*

They hit traffic on the way home, and by the time they reach the apartment, Trixie is getting ready for bed.

"Sorry, I was so late tonight, Monkey," Chloe says, tucking her daughter in. She's already read to her for the night— _Pippi Longstocking_ —and gotten her a glass of water. Now she kisses her on the cheek. "Goodnight."

"Lucifer can read to me tomorrow night, Mommy."

"We'll see."

Trixie frowns around a yawn. "That means 'no.'"

"It means Lucifer might not be—"

"I'm more than capable of reading to your spawn," Lucifer says, from the doorway. He says it like she's personally challenged him. How long has he been standing there?

"Yay!" Trixie says.

Chloe gives her another kiss. "Goodnight, Trixie-babe," she says, then she stands and shooing Lucifer out, closes the door behind her.

"You know," she says, "now you'll have to read to her. She won't forget."

"As I've said on multiple occasions, my word is my bond, Detective."

"Okay. I just hope you know what you're in for." She walks to the kitchen counter, where she's left the case file. "I'm going through these financials. You're welcome to watch TV; you won't bother me."

"What part of 'my word is my bond' confuses you? I said I'd assist you, and I shall." He opens one of the cupboards and pulls out wine glasses, then the bottle of wine.

"Fine. Just don't whine to me—"

"The Devil does not 'whine.'" He nudges a half-full glass toward her, which she accepts gratefully. Then she divides the paperwork up like she had at the precinct, and starts going through her stack methodically.

Thirty minutes in, she spots something.

"This is interesting. Every month there's a payment going to Globe Life Insurance." She digs through the file, looking through the papers that unis had collected from Eric's house. She finds what she's looking for: a life insurance policy.

"Murdered for money, Detective?" He sips his wine, raising his eyebrows at her over the glass.

"Maybe. It says the beneficiary is his brother, Alex Midland."

"Fratricide? How very Old Testament of him," he says. There's a bitterness to the words, a bitterness Chloe instinctively knows to avoid. She wonders if it has to do with Cain and his death, but she won't push, not now.

"His address has him living in Oregon. Unless he took a trip, I doubt he's our perp."

A phone call confirms her suspicion. She paces beside the counter as she talks to Peter, and when she hangs up, she turns to Lucifer.

"The brother says he was at home at the time of the murder," she says. "But get this. Eric was going to leave Tracy Campbell for a different coach. Alex didn't know who, just that he was leaving. "

"Well done, Detective. Your paperwork paid off."

"It would make for motive," she agrees, picking up her glass.

"Her alibi is suspect."

"Right. But we still have to fully explore the other leads. We'll have to go over her financials, too. More paperwork." She taps the case file with her free hand. "And there's still Josh Hastings, the Zamboni driver, to interview."

"Zamboni operator should be a torment in Hell."

It's a throw-away comment, but she stops with her glass halfway to her mouth.

Lucifer literally designed the torments of Hell. Her brain short-circuits a little at the disconnect between the man in front of her and the idea of him as an actual torturer. Between the man who agreed to read to Trixie and someone who hurt people over and over. The man who listened to the screams and pleas of the damned. She swallows hard.

Lucifer doesn't miss her slip. He sets his glass down.

"Did you think some other Devil did the nasty bits, while I was off picking daisies?" There's no heat to the question, but the hurt in his face is heartbreaking.

"I just didn't think. Period," she says. "I'm sorry. All of this is still new to me, and it catches me off-guard occasionally."

"Still … coping."

"Yes. A little."

"Right. Well, early morning tomorrow," he says, with a forced smile. "I think I'll retire early."

He makes it two steps before she speaks.

"Lucifer, wait." He stops and half-turns, so she's faced with his profile. "I meant what I said about how I see you. That never changes, no matter what mistakes I make."

Some of the tension eases from his expression. "Thank you, Detective."

"I'll let you go to sleep. I'm going to finish going through Eric's phone records."

He hesitates, turning to her. "Would you care for help?"

"Of course."

He nods and joins her at the counter, standing beside her. Together they begin going through the records, and the only sound is the shuffle of papers and the tick of the air-conditioning kicking on.

It's then, while her mind is focused on the repetitive task that she realizes something. The name of the song Lucifer had played for her.

" _A Sky Full of Stars_ ," she says, softly. "That was the song."

"It was."

She thinks of the lyrics and looks at him. He'd lit the heavens with stars; they were his. And he'd chosen to play that song for her. She's probably blushing; her face turns warm.

"Thank you," she says.

"You're quite welcome, Detective."


	4. Chapter 4

Chloe wakes to the sound of ringing. She rolls over in bed and slaps at her nightstand, trying to locate her phone. Finally finding it, she glances at the screen with sleep-blurred eyes. It's the precinct. Acting Lieutenant Parks' extension. She taps the screen and answers.

"Decker." She levers herself up on an elbow and looks at her alarm clock. The red numbers read 5:25 a.m.

"Sorry, to wake you, Decker. There's been a development in Eric Midland's case."

"Okay."

"Josh Hastings was found dead in his home this morning. COD is multiple gunshots to the chest. I want you on this ASAP."

Chloe kicks the covers off, swinging her feet to the floor. "On my way."

She hangs up and, pulling on sweats, goes across the hall to Lucifer's room. She taps on the door. "Lucifer. Wake up."

He jerks open the door a few seconds later, alarmed. His hair is mussed, and he wears only his silk boxers. Chloe keeps her gaze firmly on his face, definitely not noticing the definition of his chest, or how his waist narrows to his hips, or how—she jerks her eyes back up. Pillow lines mar one side of his face, and she's temporarily derailed by the absolute adorableness of it. The Devil gets pillow creases.

"Detective?"

"We've got another body. Lieutenant wants us on it yesterday."

"Who?" He looks annoyed, as though wondering why the victim couldn't have been killed at a more reasonable hour.

"Our Zamboni driver," she says. "Can you be ready in fifteen? I'll call Dan, and we can drop off Trixie on the way."

"Of course," he says.

He's waiting for her when she comes downstairs, her hair still damp from the shower. He perches on the arm of the couch, as relaxed and perfectly groomed as though he's spent an hour getting ready.

Trixie doesn't want to get up, mumbling a protest as Chloe wakes her and herds her out of her room still in her pajamas. The little girl carries Ms. Alien and rubs her eyes as she stumbles along.

"Come on, Monkey. We've got to get you to Daddy's." She takes Trixie by the hand.

"Carry me, Mommy," she complains, dragging her feet.

"Trixie, come on. You're too big for me to carry."

Lucifer lets out a huff of air. "For goodness' sake."

He steps forward and scoops up Trixie, one arm behind her shoulders the other behind her knees. Trixie immediately snuggles into his chest.

"I would ask that you not drool on my jacket. It's notoriously difficult to get out of Armani."

"She's not a dog, Lucifer. She doesn't drool."

Trixie's eyes are closed; she's already asleep again. Lucifer follows Chloe out to the car, depositing Trixie in the back seat. Chloe buckles her in, pressing a quick kiss on her temple.

The drive is quiet, but the silence isn't uncomfortable. Chloe turns on the radio to a news station she likes, and Lucifer listens without too many interjections. When you've lived as long as he has, he says, you tend to see patterns in how various situations work out.

When they get to Dan's apartment complex, Lucifer surprises her by opening Trixie's door and, after unbuckling her, scooping her back up.

Dan answers Chloe's knock, hobbling on crutches, his cast-covered leg held awkwardly in the air.

"Hey," he says. Then he sees Lucifer holding Trixie. He seems genuinely perplexed by the sight. "Come in."

His apartment is neat but spartan. Clean dishes sit in the drying rack, a couch and loveseat occupy the living room, the only art hanging is by Trixie.

"Love what you've done with the place, Daniel," Lucifer says.

"Trixie's room is through there," he says, pointing at an open door. Lucifer obligingly carries her in, and Chloe follows, folding down the covers, and tucking her daughter in.

"Sorry, it's so early," Chloe says to Dan.

"It's okay, I was up."

Lucifer takes out his cigarette case and motions at the door with it. "I'll be outside, Detective."

Dan waits until the door closes to speak. "Lucifer and Trixie. That's new."

She considers her reply. She thinks about Lucifer's willingness to help her with paperwork, about him playing just for her, about him interviewing a witness on his own. About how he agreed to read to Trixie.

"I think … he's really trying, you know?"

"Right." He smiles at her. "None of my business. I just want you to be happy, Chlo'."

"Thanks, Dan. I am." She smiles in response.

"Good," he says. "With your case heating up like it is, I can keep Trixie as long as you need." He taps his cast with one crutch. "Another three weeks until I can go back on duty."

She lifts a hand toward the door. "I'd better get going."

Outside, she sees Lucifer leaning against the car, cigarette in hand. A thin ribbon of smoke unspools upward. The sun rises behind him, limning him in gold. Chloe stops. A being composed of light, he'd said. She believes it.

"Detective?" He flicks away the butt of the cigarette.

"Yeah, coming."

*

Josh Hastings had lived in a shoebox of a house, in a run-down neighborhood of shoebox houses. His is painted a faded tan. Neglected yarrow plants line the cracked sidewalk, and a single scraggly palm decorates the overgrown lawn. An ambulance sits in the driveway, and two police cruisers are parked in the street.

Chloe and Lucifer walk up the sidewalk, and she greets the uniformed officer at the door, signing them into the crime scene.

"Deceased is in the living room. Neighbor heard the shots and called it in at five a.m. Says she thinks she saw a woman running from the scene, but it could have been a slender man. It was still dark. Drove off in light-colored Subaru. Didn't get a plate number."

"Thanks." She pulls on a pair of gloves, snapping them into place as she walks inside. The interior of the house is as run down as the exterior. Faded portraits line the hallway; the carpet is worn and threadbare in places. A scuffed table is the only furniture in the hall. She investigates the stack of bills on the table. Most of them bear red OVERDUE stamps.

"Money problems," she says to Lucifer.

"Clearly, judging by the décor."

In the living room, the couch slumps despondently, sagging in the middle. A tube television sits opposite it, remote lying on top. The coffee table is discolored by rings and the occasional cigarette burn. A full ashtray sits in the middle, the last cigarette a long cylinder of ash.

Josh lies beside the coffee table, sprawled on his back. Blood and the darker impact points of the bullets stain his t-shirt. Blood has pooled on the carpet around him, turning it a dark brown.

Ella hasn't arrived yet, so it's just her, Lucifer, and the body. Lucifer circles the room, peering at the few knickknacks decorating the shelves. He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"No signs of a break-in or struggle. He knew the killer," Chloe says.

"A woman or a slender man. Who do we know fitting that description?"

She crouches down and counts the shots Josh took. Five. "Someone really wanted him dead. It was definitely personal."

"Both Paul Mitchell and Tracy Campbell knew our former Zamboni operator."

"Yes, but why kill him? What's the motive?"

Lucifer lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Money? You humans do love—"

"Our money. I know. But Josh was broke. Behind on his bills. He didn't have any money. And how does this figure in with Eric Midland's death?" She stands up, pulling off the gloves. "Not much else we can do here. If you want to look at Paul and Tracy, we can get a court order for their financials. And we'll have to look at Josh's records, too."

"More bloody paperwork," he says, as he follows her out of the house and down the sidewalk.

"You don't have to help." She opens her car door, watching over the top as he opens his.

"I told you I would," he replies, pulling out his flask and taking a sip before squirreling it away again.

She smiles at him. "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome, Detective," he says, more warmly. "We are partners, after all."

*

The court orders for the financials and phone records come through with surprising quickness. By lunchtime, Chloe and Lucifer are once more facing stacks of paper.

Before they can get started, Ella calls them into her lab. She practically vibrates with excitement. She's holding the ice skate from the first murder.

"You have to see this. The blade on this skate is totally loose."

"Couldn't have it loosened up during the murder? It would have taken a lot of force during the blows."

"That's what I thought, until I took a closer look at the screws. Look." She swings a magnifying glass over on its arm. "See? The metal around the screws and the screw head themselves are scratched. They've been loosened. If Eric had skated on this, he would have had a major wreck."

"They must have been loosened before the skate was sharpened. Who had access to Eric's spare equipment?"

"Everyone who could get into the locker room. Doesn't exactly narrow the suspect pool."

"Assuming Paul wanted Eric out of the way," Lucifer says, "perhaps he grew impatient waiting for this 'wreck' to happen."

"Maybe. We'll call him back in and ask him," Chloe says. "Ella, do you have the ME's report?"

"Yeah, and it's not pretty. He was stabbed eleven times, plus the slash across his throat." She makes a slicing motion across her own. "From the angle of the wounds, your perp was much taller than the victim, and would have been strong. And, like I said before, COD was exsanguination."

"That rules out Tracy Campbell and Paul Mitchell," Chloe says, frustrated.

"Yep. They're both shorter than your guy. Or girl."

"Can you get me some close-up pictures of those screws?"

"Easy-peasy lemon squeezy."

"Thanks." Chloe leads the way back to her desk, Lucifer trailing behind. "I'll call Paul in, see if we can get him to admit to tampering with those screws."

*

Paul Mitchell and his lawyer arrive at the precinct an hour later. A uni shows them into the interrogation room, and lets Chloe and Lucifer know. They walk to interrogation together, Chloe going in first carrying the glossy photographs Ella had printed for her. She sets them on the table as she sits down.

"What can your client tell us about these?" she asks the lawyer.

Paul leans forward, frowning at them. Then comprehension dawns. He blanches and looks away.

The lawyer whispers something in Paul's ear, who whispers to him in return. They exchange another set of whispers before Paul finally speaks.

"Nothing," he says.

"Come on, Paul. We know you and Eric were competing for the same Olympic slot. Are you sure you didn't try to swing things in your favor by tampering with his skates?"

"Don't answer that," the lawyer says.

"Oh, bloody Hell," Lucifer says. He leans forward in his chair, looking into Paul's eyes. His voice drops and takes on a seductive tone. "Why don't you tell me what you truly desire?"

Paul's eyes take on a glassy appearance that Chloe recognizes. He's completely in Lucifer's thrall.

"I want..."

"Yes?" Lucifer encourages, still leaning forward intently.

"What are you doing?" the lawyer protests, but Paul isn't listening to anyone but Lucifer.

"I want..." Paul continues. "To be the best."

"You do, don't you? Nothing wrong with that," Lucifer says, almost purring the words out.

"I want that Olympic slot."

"Enough to sabotage Eric's equipment?"

"Yes! I did it. I loosened the screws on his skates! I didn't want you taking my fingerprints because they are all over those skates."

The lawyer puts a restraining hand on Paul's arm, but Paul jerks away from him.

Lucifer sits back, grinning. "And did you murder him?"

"No! I only wanted him to break a leg or an ankle. I would never kill him. He was my best friend."

Lucifer makes a disgusted noise. "Friends don't do such things to one another."

"He was leaving Tracy Campbell, and he was going to steal my coach. I had to do something. You should talk to Tracy. She might not look like it, but she has a wicked temper."

"And what about Josh Hastings?"

"Who?" Paul seems genuinely confused.

"The Zamboni operator."

"I don't know what you're talking about. What about him?"

The lawyer looks like he's about to have a coronary. "That's enough! Not another word, Paul."

Chloe breaks in, picking up the pictures and standing. "Thank you, Paul. You've been very helpful."

Lucifer holds the door open and follows her out of the room. Chloe glances at him.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Detective."

"That's the second person who's named Tracy Campbell as having motive. Let's call her in," she says, going to her desk. She pulls out a sheet of contact information and, putting it on speaker, dials the number.

The phone rings. And rings. Chloe lets it go a while longer before hanging up. She checks the time, picking up the folders from her desk, and putting them in a box marked with Eric Midland's name.

"It's early enough to go see her in person," she says.

Lucifer nods. "Very well."

They walk to the elevator together, Chloe carrying the box with the files. As they step on and the doors close, she turns to Lucifer.

"I still don't see how this works. Who killed Josh? It wasn't Paul."

"That leaves Tracy."

"And we're back to motive. Why would she kill him?"

"I intend to ask her."

*

They pull up to Tracy Campbell's white rancher two hours later. Chloe gets out of the car, looking at Lucifer.

"No kicking in doors. No throwing her through a window. No kidnapping her. This has got to go by the book. I don't want any evidence thrown out because you can't follow the rules."

Lucifer seems piqued. "Please, Detective. I'll be the picture of correct procedure."

They walk up to the porch, Chloe taking the lead. She knocks on the door. There's no answer. She waits a bit longer and knocks again, harder.

"Tracy Campbell, this is Chloe Decker with the LAPD. We have some more questions to ask you."

Silence is all that greets her.

She steps over to a window, shielding the glare from the sun while she peers inside. White lace curtains block her view. All she can see is a sliver of the living room. The empty living room.

"I don't think she's home."

"Do you hear that? Did someone inside just call out for help?"

Chloe puts a hand on his arm. "No. I don't hear anything. And neither do you. You're not kicking that door in."

The piqued expression is back. "Very well. Be a spoilsport."

"Come on," she says, heading back to the car. "It's too late to drive back to the precinct; I brought the files. We can go over the records at home."

*

Lucifer doesn't argue about paperwork when they get to the apartment; he only pulls out the glasses and bottle of wine.

"Running low," he says, pouring for both of them. He stands beside her at the counter, eyeing his stack of papers.

"Was the wine cellar at Lux destroyed in the fire?"

"Fortunately, no. It escaped unscathed."

"That's good," she says, distractedly, already poring over the records.

They work in easy silence, only breaking it occasionally to point out something to one another. She rests her hand on the counter beside her stack of 'finished' documents. Lucifer does the same, touching her, and his hand and arm are a comfortable presence against hers.

She clears her throat, and picks up her wine glass, taking a drink. Her skin feels cold with the loss of contact. She sets the glass down, and then she surprises herself, because she puts her hand on his. Turning it over, she twines her fingers with his.

He looks at her, smiling faintly, and she feels a little thrill when he squeezes her hand. Like a stupid kid with her first crush. She smiles back at him.

"Thank you," she says.

"Not that I'm one to turn down praise, but what have I done?"

His thumb sweeps across hers.

"Don't think I haven't noticed all the little things you've been doing lately."

"It was recently pointed out that I needed to 'step up my game,' so to speak."

She doesn't even have to think about who that might have been.

"Linda."

"Hmm. Yes."

"Well, it's appreciated. Very much," she says.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to read to the spawn tonight. I was rather looking forward to it."

"Don't overdo it."

"I don't lie, Chloe."

She uses their linked hands to turn them both, so they're facing each other. His expression is set in a question.

She stands on her toes and kisses him. He leans down to meet her, and when their lips brush together, it's just as chaste as when she kissed him in the hospital. She settles back on her heels, and he follows her, kissing her just as gently.

Their hands are still linked; she lifts her free hand to cup his face. His stubble is rough under her palm, his skin warm.

"Lucifer, there are still things I don't know. Questions I have," she murmurs.

"Ask."

"Why don't you heal when I'm near you?"

And there it is. His expression shutters and his eyes flick away. He draws back. His grip on her hand goes slack. He looks like a skittish animal, ready to flee.

She squeezes his hand. "There's nothing you can tell me that will change the way I feel about you."

He gives her a sad smile. "You say that, but the reality is … when I learned the truth myself I made a rather rash decision. I got married."

Candy. That's what that had been about. Why he had panicked and run.

"And you're worried I might react the same way?"

"Yes." A weak grin. "With less marrying of a Vegas performer."

"Just talk to me, Lucifer."

He sighs. "You're a miracle, Detective, and that is not a metaphor."

A miracle? What does that mean?

"I don't understand."

"Your parents had difficulty conceiving. Dear old Dad sent Amenadiel to Earth to bless your mother. You are quite literally heaven-sent."

Chloe stares at him, reeling. Her mother had called her 'a little miracle' on more than one occasion. Penelope hadn't known how right she'd been.

"I'm only here because God—"

"Intervened."

Holy _shit_.

She realizes she's squeezing Lucifer's hand for all she's worth, trying to keep herself tethered. Her entire existence is due to Amenadiel. Due to God. Her life, her career—for God's sake, _Trixie_.

"Why?" The word comes out as a squeak of sound. She tries again. "Why did He do it?"

Now Lucifer just seems tired, like this is draining him.

"If you believe my mum, you were put here in my path."

"In your path." She shakes her head. "What does that mean?"

"I thought, at the time, it meant we were the butt of Dad's colossal joke. That none of your feelings were real. That you couldn't help feeling what you did."

"And so you ran to Las Vegas and met Candy..."

He concedes this with a short nod.

Her mind is a miasma of thoughts. Chief among them is that her feelings for Lucifer might not be her own, that they were some sort of delusion, some sort of—

"No. What I feel for you, that's my own."

"Detective..." His expression softens, the closed-off look fading.

"I mean it, Lucifer."

"I … I know you do. You don't lie, either."

"This is why you can't heal when I'm near, because I'm a … miracle?" It feels strangely ridiculous to say. She is who she's always been. A mother. A detective. Boring middle name and all.

He hesitates.

"What? There's more?"

"You make me vulnerable because..." Another hesitation, longer this time. He looks away from her and then back again.

"Lucifer, if this isn't something you can talk about..."

"No. No more going backward." His smile is fleeting, there and gone. "You make me vulnerable for the same reason you made Pierce vulnerable."

"Pierce? What does he have to do with this?"

"His … feelings for you are what made him lose his mark."

"His feelings?" She had loved Pierce. For the man she thought he was. Not enough to marry him, but the feelings had been genuine, at least until she found out what he was. What had he felt for her? He'd said he loved her.

She swallows. What does that mean Lucifer feels for her? And what does she feel for him?

"Chloe, I..." he trails off, uncertainly, like he's afraid she's getting ready to bolt.

"Lucifer, I'm not going anywhere." That much she's sure of.

It seems to reassure him, at least somewhat, because he raises their twined hands, and maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. He lifts his free hand and cups her cheek, running his fingers into her hair. Then he kisses her. Softly. Tentatively.

She presses back, with more insistence. His lips are sure and warm against hers. He matches her pressure without deepening the kiss, waiting for her to make the first move. She parts her lips slightly, and he matches that as well. Her tongue darts out to taste—red wine and _him_ —and he meets her with his own.

She gets it. She really does. If he feels the same way she does, he can't say the words, not yet. So he's showing her.

He releases their linked hands so he can put one hand on her hip. She's glad for the contact, holding her steady. She puts her hand on his shoulder, feeling the play of muscle and tendon there.

She's always really liked kissing, and Lucifer is a _marvelous_ kisser. It shouldn't surprise her; she's kissed him before, after all, but this is different.

He touches his tongue to hers again, teasing her, before nipping at her lower lip. His stubble prickles her lips. His hand in her hair moves back to her face, and then to the join of her throat and shoulder. She's sure he must be able to feel her racing pulse against his fingertips. She moves her hand down his arm in a slow stroke, enjoying the flex of his bicep under her touch.

She's not sure how long they stand there, making out. Long enough that she's sure she's going to have stubble-burn. Long enough that she's mapped the feel of his shoulder and arm and chest. Long enough that—because God apparently has a cruel sense of humor—her phone rings.

Shit.

She pulls back from him, and she can't help but lick her lips. She's pleasantly breathless. She fumbles for her phone on the counter. She sees the name of the caller and, not trusting herself to actually pick it up, taps the speaker button.

"Mommy?"

"Hi, Trixie! Yeah. Lucifer's here, too."

"Did you have to run for the phone? You sound all funny."

Lucifer smirks at her. The smug bastard.

"No, babe. I'm fine."

"Okay. Hi, Lucifer!"

"Hello, child."

"I'm just calling to say goodnight."

"You're up way past your bedtime," Chloe says, checking the time, finally. She and Lucifer had been at it longer than she thought.

"I know! Daddy said it was okay this once."

Chloe asks about her daughter's day and gets a rambling account of the movies she and Dan had watched, and the food they'd eaten, and the trip to the park they'd made—not as much fun as usual because she couldn't do the monkey bars because of her cast, but she still got to do the slides and the merry-go-round.

The call and her daughter wind down shortly after. Trixie hasn't forgotten Lucifer's promise to read to her; she tries to ask for him to read over the phone, but Chloe vetoes that idea. They both have to say goodnight to fully appease her, and then she hangs up.

Chloe smiles at the phone, then looks at Lucifer. He's watching her thoughtfully.

"What?"

"You're taking things much better than I expected."

"Give me some credit, Lucifer. A month ago, I didn't know anything. I think I've shown I can handle anything you throw at me."

He picks up his wine glass, taking a drink. "It seems so, Detective."

She turns toward the counter. "So. Paperwork?"

"Hmm," he says. "Very well."

When he puts his hand on the small of her back, rubbing small circles, she smiles and keeps reading.


	5. Chapter 5

Chloe's dreams are filled with three things: Lucifer and kissing and sex. A lot of sex. Up against the wall of his elevator. In the shower. On the kitchen counter. An opulent hotel room. Places she doesn't recognize. Positions she's only ever imagined.

She wakes up with a start, her alarm clock blaring; she smacks her hand down on top of it in frustration. She feels too warm, flushed. Not surprising, considering. She kicks her covers off and crawls out of bed, pulling her sweatpants and LAPD sweatshirt out of a drawer.

There's no smell of coffee, and as she walks downstairs, the apartment is quiet and still. Lucifer must still be sleeping.

She starts the water for the French press, pulling a frying pan out of the cupboard. She might not be able to cook him a crêpe, but she makes a mean breakfast of egg-in-a-hole and bacon. She starts the bacon first, enjoying the way it sizzles when it hits the pan.

"If it's no trouble, I prefer the bacon extra crispy," Lucifer says from the top of the stairs. He's dressed in his silk robe; he wears it untied, narrow rectangle of chest and abdomen bare, silk boxers underneath. As he comes down the stairs, the silk billows back, giving her an uninterrupted look at all that skin.

After her dreams, Chloe does not need this show. She yanks her gaze back to the bacon. He walks into the kitchen, clearly oblivious to the effect he's having on her.

The water is almost at a boil on the stove, and Lucifer pulls it off, filling the French press. Without measuring, he spoons in coffee. He stirs it gently and sets it to the side.

"Sleep okay?" she asks.

"Very well," he answers. He peers over her shoulder at the bacon. Does she imagine it, or can she feel the heat from his body?

"That look about right?" She prods the bacon.

"Looks perfect." He leans forward and purrs the words, and Chloe changes her mind. He knows exactly the effect he's having.

As she puts the bacon on a plate, he backs away, reaching for the French press. He fills a coffee cup and, after adding a splash of almond milk from the fridge, passes it her way. Then he fills his own cup.

Chloe takes a sip of her coffee, sighing in bliss. Perfect.

She cuts holes in the bread and, using the bacon grease—the best way to cook egg-in-a-hole—she starts the first piece. When the side facing down is lightly toasted, she flips it, cracking an egg into the hole.

Lucifer watches this procedure, then walks around the counter, perching on a bar stool, leaning his elbows on the counter. His robe falls open, and, once again, Chloe has trouble concentrating. She feels flushed, sure she's blushing.

Talk about work. Work is safe.

"You have a problem with a working breakfast?"

He groans. Chloe's mind slides dangerously close to the gutter. Those damned dreams of hers.

"Paperwork over breakfast?" he asks, dryly. "Why not?"

*

"Here's this number again." Chloe taps the page in front of her. Josh's phone records. "It was the last number to call Josh, and it shows up here and," she refers back to a previous page, "here."

"I'll see you a reoccurring phone number and raise you a new life insurance policy."

"What?"

"Here," he says, setting several sheets of paper in front of her. "These are Tracy Campbell's bank statements. She's made payments to MetLife in the past two months."

"So? She has insurance. A lot of people do. It's a human thing."

He points at another sheet. "So, the months before, no payments. It's a new policy."

She thinks for a minute, following his train of thought.

"You're thinking she took out a policy on Eric? That would give us motive, but Ella said the killer was bigger than him. Tracy is too small to be our murderer." She pauses. "Unless..."

"Unless what, Detective?"

"Unless she had someone else do it." She picks up her phone, ready to call Tracy despite the hour. Then she sees the number and understanding hits her like a train. She holds up her phone so Lucifer can see the number. "It's the same number."

"As?"

"As the reoccurring number in Josh's phone records."

"Tracy was calling our deceased Zamboni operator?"

"Looks like it. What if she hired him to kill Eric for the insurance money?"

"Then I daresay we need to have a chat with Tracy."

*

Chloe faxes in the paperwork for a search warrant for Tracy Campbell's house. When it comes back, she and Lucifer make the drive. A team of unis meets them there, ready to help execute the warrant and search the house. They carry a battering ram.

Chloe knocks on the door, Lucifer by her side.

"Tracy Campbell? This is the LAPD. Open up, or we will break down the door."

No answer.

She pounds on the door again, met only by silence.

The unis with the battering ram start to step up, but she's not going to deny Lucifer this. With a sweeping flourish of her hand, she gestures at the door.

"Care to do the honors?"

"Love to," he answers. He rears back and kicks, and the door explodes inward. Chloe blinks. She's seen his strength before, but it still catches her off-guard.

Pulling her Glock out, she proceeds into the home, checking her corners.

"Clear!" she shouts in each room as she goes. Lucifer follows behind her like a shadow.

"No one home," she says when she reaches the last room, a home office. She holsters her weapon, looking around. To the sergeant in charge of the warrant team, she says, "We're looking for anything tying her to either the murder of Josh Hastings or Eric Midland. We'll start in here."

"More paperwork?" Lucifer asks, resignation etched onto his features.

"Yeah, sorry."

An hour of methodical searching later she finds something. "Look at this."

"An insurance policy," Lucifer says. "On Eric?"

"You got it in one," she replies. "Now we just have to find her."

*

Tracy Campbell is in the wind. Her bank accounts have been emptied; she doesn't answer her phone, not that Chloe expects her to.

"She has a two-day head start on us." Chloe sits at her desk, head propped on her fist. "She could be in Mexico by now."

"We'll find her, even if we have to retrieve her ourselves."

"Extradition from Mexico is a nightmare."

"I wasn't thinking of official channels." Lucifer's eyebrows arch. He pulls out his flask, twisting the cap off.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." She taps her keyboard, bringing up Tracy's DMV records. What she sees surprises her. "She doesn't have a California license. She's licensed through Washington."

She stands and rifles through a box of papers, looking for something she knows she'd seen during her hunt for the insurance paperwork. She holds up the title to a home in triumph. "And look at this. She has a house there, too. "

"Well done, Detective!" He toasts her with the flask and takes a drink.

"Feel up to a trip?"

"Not if it involves flying coach," he says, and gives a little dramatic shudder.

"It's an eighteen-hour drive to Washington. We have to fly. You're not … afraid of flying, are you?" That would be the ultimate irony: an archangel afraid of getting on an airplane.

"I'm happy to fly. Just not … coach." He makes a face that reminds Chloe of Trixie being asked to eat something she doesn't like. Lucifer twists the cap on the flask, tucking it in his jacket. "Let me arrange our travel."

"Okay," she says, slowly. "The police department won't reimburse you—"

The look he gives her says that's the least of his concerns, and she holds up her hands.

"Fine," she says. "I'll let you plan the flight. Sooner is better than later."

He stands, straightening his cufflinks. "I'm aware."

She watches as he walks away, pulling out his phone. She copies down the address of the Washington home from Tracy Campbell's driver's license. This accomplished, she puts in a call as a courtesy to the police in Wenatchee. It's a rural community; she leaves a message with the local sheriff's office stressing that Tracy is to be considered armed and dangerous.

Lucifer returns to her desk and settles into his chair. "All set, Detective. We depart at six a.m. tomorrow."

It makes sense, not to leave tonight. All they'd have time to do is find a motel. Tomorrow they can make the trip there and back in one day.

"Bring a coat," she tells Lucifer. "It's winter in Washington this time of year."

*

The next day, Lucifer gives her directions that take them out of town, to the edge of the Mojave Desert. She eyes the terrain unhappily. She has recent unpleasant memories of the desert. Of Lucifer bleeding out in front of her. From the way Lucifer sits in silence and stares at the landscape, he's rehashing things, too.

"Turn there," he says, nodding at an unmarked dirt road.

Chloe frowns. "There's nothing out here."

"You'll need to trust me."

She slows the car and turns off onto the dirt road. The car picks up speed, and a plume of dust billows, trailing them as she drives.

Ten minutes later, she finally sees buildings in the haze of the distance. The buildings grow in size the closer they get, and soon she can make out details. There's an airplane hangar with a small jet sitting in front of it. It's a private airstrip. The jet gleams in the early morning sun.

"Apologies for the drive. It was the best I could do on such short notice," Lucifer says.

"Do I want to know what the owner does for a living?" she asks, parking beside the hangar, pulling her heavy winter coat from the back seat.

"She's an investment banker."

"Uh-huh." She swings her car open and gets out, waiting for Lucifer by the hood of the car while he retrieves his long wool coat from the back seat. "Completely on the up and up, too, right?"

"The flight crew is waiting, Detective."

The flight crew consists of the pilot and a flight attendant. They don't blink at Chloe's sidearm. They introduce themselves, and then step aside so Lucifer and Chloe can board first. There's a literal red carpet leading to the stairs, and Chloe tries not to feel nervous.

The interior of the plane is gorgeous. It's unlike anything that she associates with airplanes. Everything is plush white leather and dark, polished wood. Pairs of seats are spread out far enough that she's sure they recline flat. It doesn't even smell like an airplane. The air is fresh and clean.

The flight attendant takes their coats, smiling as she walks into the cabin at the fore of the plane.

"If you'll take your seats, we'll get underway," the pilot says. Chloe steps forward and sinks into a seat, the leather cradling her. Lucifer takes the seat beside her.

"This is … wow," Chloe says. "Already so much better than flying commercial."

"You don't miss the crying babies or coughing seatmate or the neighbor who won't cease with his bloody talking?"

"Shockingly, no."

The airplane starts to move, rolling smoothly on the tarmac. Lucifer's hand lies on the armrest, and Chloe takes it in her own. He obliges her by twining his fingers through hers. He smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corners, and she feels that same flutter of her heart.

They take off a short time later, the force of it pushing Chloe back into her seat. When they hit cruising altitude, the flight attendant appears with champagne. Sipping hers, Chloe sighs. She could get used to this.

It's a three-hour flight to Wenatchee, and they spend it chatting about about little things. Lucifer regales her with tales of when he and Maze first arrived in L.A; Chloe tells him about when she was a child actress, what that was like. He laughs when she tells the story about when she was very young, and she accidentally let her pet snake loose in a costar's trailer. It occurs to her they've rarely shared about themselves, that usually, they talk about work, or she talks about Trixie. Connecting with him in a different way feels good.

The airplane touches down with the slightest of bounces, taxiing into another private hangar. Chloe looks out the window at the flat scenery as the plane comes to a halt. All she sees for miles are fields, harvested of their crops, lying fallow for winter. A skiff of snow rests on the ground, and the wind whips it into occasional flurries. The sky is clouded over, an unbroken gray shroud held over the world.

They thank the flight crew as they disembark, promising to be back by nightfall. Chloe hopes that it's earlier than that. The cold embraces them, and her breath makes little plumes as she breathes, the little clouds almost immediately stolen by the wind. She zips her parka up; Lucifer buttons his coat. It's long and double-breasted, and she's not surprised when he pulls a pair of black gloves from the pocket. He looks like he just stepped out of a catalog for men's winter wear. She jams her hands into the pockets of her coat.

There's a black SUV waiting for them; the keys are in it. She checks her phone as she climbs behind the wheel; there's a voicemail. She recognizes the number as belonging to the local sheriff's office. Listening to the voicemail, her mouth drops open.

"Of all the stupid, moronic, thickheaded bullshit!"

"Detective?"

"The local sheriff knows Tracy Campbell. He sent a deputy out to check on her whereabouts."

She dials the sheriff's number, ready to tear him a new asshole. She gets the dispatcher, again. Who refuses to give her the sheriff's cell number. Chloe is forced to leave yet another message.

"What part of catching her off-guard did he not understand?" she fumes, as she activates her phone's GPS and types in Tracy's address.

"The surprise element, apparently."

Chloe doesn't reply, only puts the SUV in gear and pulls out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires.

*

Tracy Campbell's second home is located down a lonesome road in the middle of nowhere. It's a quintessential farmhouse: two stories, white, with a wide front porch. The house sits with a large barn and several outbuildings in the middle of an ocean of shorn fields, a loose grouping of silhouettes against the horizon, like a fleet of ships lost at sea.

A tan cruiser bearing the seal of the sheriff's office on its door sits in the driveway, near the barn. Chloe parks beside it, and, checking that her holster is unclipped, gets out of the SUV. The constant wind catches her ponytail and whips it into her face; she tucks it into the back of her coat. Her fingers feel like ice when they meet the skin of her neck.

The hood of the cruiser is cool to the touch. The house sits still, no activity. Chloe glances at the barn, but there's no movement from that direction, either.

"House first," she tells Lucifer. He nods in response.

She leads the way, glancing at the upstairs windows as she goes. White curtains hang still and lifeless. No signs of anyone trying to crack off a shot at them.

On the porch, she draws her Glock, and positions herself to one side of the door, with Lucifer on the other.

"Tracy Campbell?" she calls out. "This is the LAPD. Come out with your hands up."

She starts to pound on the door, but, to her surprise, it swings partway open under the first blow.

"Ominous," Lucifer says, blandly.

Chloe makes a shushing motion at him and, placing the flat of her hand on the door, pushes it all the way open. An empty hallway lined with doors greets her. A staircase runs along one wall, leading to a darkened upstairs.

"Tracy Campbell," she shouts again, moving forward. "LAPD. Come out now!"

She swings open the first door, darting a look at the corners of the room. It's a small, old-fashioned sitting room. Empty.

"Clear," she says to Lucifer.

Clearing a house is one of the most dangerous, stressful parts of the job. Every doorway is a potential shooter, followed by a letdown of emotion as each room is verified empty. Chloe creeps forward, checking each of the doors in turn, calling out their status to Lucifer as she goes.

The last doorway on the right yields a cramped, outdated kitchen. Empty.

"Upstairs?" Lucifer asks.

They hear the distant gunshot at the same time.

"That was outside," she says, rushing into the hallway, heading for the front door.

Outside, the wind howls, biting at her face and hands. Snow from the fields snakes across the ground in shifting lines.

From the driveway, she counts seven outbuildings plus the barn, but the latter is the one she makes a beeline for.

The barn is an antique, a product of a bygone era. Painted red, it stands proudly, a clapboard testament to a time when craftsmanship was all-important. Two large doors are centered on the front, with a smaller man-door to the left. Above the main doors, an unlatched hayloft door swings open, banging against the barn wall as the wind catches it.

As they walk toward it, the sound of machinery coughing to life reaches them. Something inside of the barn is now running.

"We'll try to take her by surprise. We may be looking at a hostage situation," she tells Lucifer, raising her voice over the wind.

"Just … be careful, Detective." He touches her arm, dropping his hand after a moment of contact.

"Always," she answers.

Chloe heads for the man-door. Pulling the metal latch, she swings it open. The hinges shriek and she shakes her head. So much for surprise.

The door opens into a small tool room; rakes and shovels and other implements hang on one wall. A workbench sits under a small, grimy window. Her boots scuff on the dirt floor, and the smell of straw and dust tickles her nose. Another door, closed, seems to lead into the main area of the barn. This close to it, the sound of the machinery is much louder.

"Ready?" she mouths at Lucifer, hand on the door handle.

"Of course." He flashes a grin at her that can only be called predatory.

She pushes the door open, and all hell breaks loose.


	6. Chapter 6

As the door opens, two things happen in quick succession. The machinery beyond it makes a roaring sound, and Chloe is faced with an enormous rotating spindle of row after row of flashing metal teeth. A combine or a thresher or some other type of farm equipment advances on her. Then, a second later, two shots, barely audible under the noise of the equipment, ring out. The bullets smack into the door frame, sending splinters of wood flying.

She jerks further back into the smaller room, staring at the whirring wall of death in front of her. No way around it. There's got to be another way in. 

She motions to Lucifer and leads the way back out into the wind. They start walking around the structure, through knee-high weeds. Their feet leave tracks where the snow has gathered.

At the rear of the barn, Chloe spots another small door. As soon as her hand touches the latch, another shot zings through the wood. She drops into a crouch, reaching for the latch again. She rests her hand on it, waiting. When she doesn't draw any more fire, she pushes up, ready to spring to the side when the door opens. Nothing happens. She pushes again, harder. Nothing.

"A little help?" she asks Lucifer, lifting her eyebrows. Sometimes it pays to be partners with a celestial being.

"I have a rather different thought," he says. "Come along."

He leads her back to the front of the barn. Standing in front of the main doors, he gives her a pointed look and tilts his head back to peer up at the hayloft door.

"That must be forty feet, Lucifer."

"Do you trust me?" he asks, seriously.

Her response is immediate. "Of course."

"You might want to put that up." He nods at her Glock.

She frowns but holsters the sidearm.

"Very well."

His wings materialize with no more warning than that. Chloe takes an involuntarily step backward at the suddenness of it. He flexes them, and the wind catches at his feathers, ruffling them. As though on cue a bolt of sunlight breaks through the clouds and he _shines_. He looks skyward in annoyance, and the _really, Dad_ is almost audible.

She's aware she's gawking and shakes her head. They have work to do.

He beckons to her, and she steps within in arm's reach of him.

"That won't do, Detective," he says. He puts a hand on her hip and pulls her in close, until they're chest to chest. Then he embraces her. The wool of his coat is soft against her cheek, and even through the fabric, she can smell his cologne. Someday she'll have to ask what it is.

Then her stomach drops because they're in the air. She's flying. Being flown. By a fallen angel. When did her life become this?

Gravity returns along with solid footing. Lucifer doesn't release her immediately, letting her find her balance first. Then he lets go. Chloe takes two steps backward, further into the hayloft, pulling her Glock once more. Lucifer's wings arch above them for a second; then, with a rolling shrug of his shoulders, they vanish.

She takes a minute to reevaluate her surroundings. The noise of the machinery below has masked the sound of their entry; the element of surprise is theirs again. 

The hayloft functions as a second floor to the barn, extending halfway across, where it drops off into the space below. The tops of ladders—one to the right, one to the left—mark the only ways down. The loft is empty, except for a light covering of moldering hay that sends up puffs of pale gray dust with every step.

Chloe inches forward, toward the edge of the loft, so she can see the floor below in increments. She moves slowly enough that hopefully, it won't catch Tracy's attention.

There she is. And, yep, the deputy Sheriff Dumbass sent is on his knees in front of her. From what Chloe can see of the deputy, he looks young. Very young. He and Tracy face away from the loft, toward the rear door of the barn. Obviously, Tracy expects her to try it again. 

Chloe turns to Lucifer. "I'll take the righthand ladder; you take the left." 

She starts for the ladder, gripping the top rung and swiveling quickly to step on to a lower rung. She checks over her shoulder as she climbs down, making sure Tracy hasn't turned. She jumps the last few feet, her boots hitting the floor with a thump of sound. Spinning, she aims her gun at Tracy's back. Lucifer has reached the ground as well; he moves to flank their target.

She eases across the floor, closer and closer to Tracy. Chloe sights in on center mass, ready to fire, ready to end the hostage situation.

Behind her, the piece of equipment makes a coughing noise and sputters to a drawn-out stop.

Tracy spins around, dragging the deputy up by the shoulder. She has a semi-automatic in her hand, pointed at his head. His sidearm is missing, a drying trickle of blood oozes down his temple, and his eyes are red-rimmed. He's taller than her by just enough that Chloe's shot is completely blocked.

"Stop right there. Both of you," Tracy calls out. In the quiet left behind by the dying machinery, her shout is overly loud. The only other sound is the low noise of the wind, moaning around the corners of the building.

"Let him go, Tracy! This can still end peacefully."

"Peacefully? Are you kidding? The only way this ends is with you letting me go. Or this young man”—she shakes the deputy—"loses his mind. All over the floor."

"I can't let you do that." 

"Then his death is on your conscience, too!"

"I think you had Eric killed. We know you killed Josh Hastings."

"Then you know I won't hesitate to kill this man. Put your gun down and let me go, or I'll shoot him, I swear I will!" 

She raises the gun away from the deputy's head and fires a shot into the air. Then she presses the semi-automatic against his head again, hard enough the deputy whimpers.

Chloe believes her. She can't risk the deputy's life by taking a shot. She can't let Tracy shoot him. It's a lose-lose situation. 

She starts to lower her weapon. If she can get close enough, she can wrestle the gun away from the smaller woman. Her hands start to sweat. Her mouth goes dry.

"Detective!" Lucifer doesn't sound happy about her course of action. She cuts him a glare to stay put. She doesn't need him getting shot.

"I'm putting my gun down." She bends down and lays the Glock on the ground, standing up again slowly, hands in the air. Cold sweat trickles between her shoulder blades, running down her spine. Her heart rate picks up.

"Walk toward me!" Tracy says, pointing her gun at Chloe now. "And you stay there!" She turns the gun toward Lucifer.

Chloe starts forward, walking carefully across the dirt floor. She hears Lucifer utter a curse and hopes he doesn't try something more reckless than what she has planned. 

"Stop there." Tracy orders when Chloe is several feet in front of her. She pushes the deputy away, toward Chloe, forcing them to stand close to one another.

Chloe takes a step forward.

"I said stop!"

Another step. She's close enough she can see down the bore of the semi-automatic. She swallows hard. Her heart thumps in her chest. Her stomach twists. She thinks about Trixie, and how growing up without—She crushes the thought; she doesn't need the distraction.

"Don't come any closer."

She risks one more step. Close enough that the barrel of the gun almost touches her forehead. 

Chloe strikes out. Her right hand blurs up to grab Tracy's wrist. She pushes her arm away, so the weapon is no longer pointed at her. She spins to the left, inside of the other woman's space, so her back is to her. Dropping her shoulder, she uses the momentum she's built to flip Tracy over her body, so the smaller woman flops on the ground. 

After that, it's another simple maneuver to twist the gun out of Tracy's grip. Chloe backs away from her, panting, heart still racing.

Lucifer rushes to her side. 

"Well done," he says, but his expression shouts _why did you do that?_ On anyone else, she'd call it frightened. He advances on Tracy.

"Lucifer..." Chloe cautions. She watches as Lucifer grabs Tracy by the front of her coat, lifting her roughly to her feet, so only her toes brush the ground. He gives her a small shake that Chloe knows uses only a fraction of his strength.

"Did you do it? Did you kill that poor boy?"

"Go to Hell!" Tracy snaps.

"Oh, if only I were still there. You and I would have a great deal to discuss."

His eyes flare red. 

Tracy starts to tremble in Lucifer's grip, the color bleeding out of her face.

"Tell me!" he commands.

"It was Josh. Josh killed him. I promised him half the insurance money."

Lucifer's lips curl in disgust. He gives her another small shake. "Your own student?"

"He was going to leave me! You don't understand what that would have done to my career."

Chloe breaks in. "Why kill Josh Hastings?"

"He wanted more of the insurance money. I told him no, and he got violent. I had to shoot him. It was self-defense."

Lucifer drops her like he's touched something filthy, and she crumples to the ground. His eyes fade to their normal dark brown as he looks at Chloe.

"Is that sufficient?" he asks.

"It is." She crouches and pulls her handcuffs from the back of her belt. "Tracy Campbell, you're under arrest for the murders of Eric Midland and Josh Hastings." She starts to inform Tracy of her rights as she pulls her hands behind her back and cuffs her. 

Lifting Tracy to her feet, a voice behind Chloe makes her look over her shoulder.

"Who are you people?"

The deputy has sunk to his knees again, a pool of vomit beside him where he had been sick. Chloe takes pity on him and, asking Lucifer to watch Tracy, she goes to the deputy.

"What's your name?"

"Zachary Thomson."

"Chloe Decker. Lucifer Morningstar. We're LAPD." She offers a hand, and when he takes it, she helps him to his feet. She eyes the wound on the side of his head, still trickling blood. "You might have a concussion. She hit you?"

"With the pistol. I can't believe she hurt me. Killed anyone. Ms. Campbell took vacations here every year. I've known her my whole life!"

"Believe it. People don't lie to Lucifer," Chloe says. Not when they look into his eyes and see Hell. "I'll call your dispatcher and get an ambulance out here. You shouldn't be driving until you're checked out."

*

Chloe and Lucifer end up waiting with Zachary until the ambulance comes, sitting in the warmth of their SUV.

"It'll be good to get home," Chloe says, watching out the window as the paramedics examine the deputy.

"And away from this bloody awful weather."

"I second that." She checks the rearview mirror. Tracy sits mute, eyes fixed downward on a point only she can see.

The paramedics must have finished with Zachary because he comes over to the SUV. Chloe rolls down her window and smiles at him.

"You check out?"

"Yeah, they said I'm good to go." He pauses. "Thank you, by the way. For saving my life."

"You're welcome."

Lucifer shifts impatiently in his seat. "As much as we'd love to stay and chat, we have a plane to catch."

"Take care of yourself," Chloe says to Zachary. "And tell your boss to call me. I'd love to have a talk with him."

Zachary gives her a little salute and nods, then turns and walks back to his cruiser. Before he gets in, he waves.

"Somebody has a fan. Should I be jealous?" Lucifer says.

"Shut up. Just shut up," she replies, putting the SUV in gear. 

As they pull onto the main road, Lucifer's phone rings. He unbuttons his coat to reach it, pulling it out, and checking the number. Frowning, he takes the call.

Chloe doesn't try to listen, but it's not like she can step aside to allow him privacy. He has a terse conversation, punctuated by short answers of, “Yes” and, “I see,” and finally, a flat, unhappy, “No, I'm quite pleased,” before hanging up.

They ride in silence; he's obviously brooding on something. Finally, Chloe glances at him.

"Everything okay?"

"That was one of my contractors."

"Another delivery?"

"No," he says. "My penthouse is ready early."

Oh. She won't deny the disappointment she feels. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Whatever she and Lucifer are, they aren't ready to live together, not by a long shot. Still … it surprises her how she feels.

"Well. That's good?" She turns it into a question.

"Yes. Quite. I'm sure you're ready to have your home to yourself again."

"No, I liked having you." She realizes how it sounds as soon as it's out of her mouth. What she blurts next isn't an improvement. "In my house! Having you in my house!"

He chuckles, and the serious mood is broken. "Darling, you can have me—"

She holds up a silencing hand, cutting him off.

"Not another word," she says.

*

The trip back to Los Angeles is uneventful. The flight crew doesn't bat an eye as Chloe marches Tracy up to the plane, and the ride home is smooth. She holds Lucifer's hand again and smiles when he randomly presses a kiss to the back of it. The car ride to the precinct is quiet; Tracy stays silent even during booking. The desk sergeant congratulates them on solving the case as they leave for the night.

In the parking lot, Chloe turns to Lucifer. "Take you to Lux?"

"I haven't collected my things from your apartment."

"Yeah. I was thinking about that." She pauses, swallowing, working up the courage to tell him what she's thinking. She decides to just go for it. Speaking quickly, she says, "Maybe you could leave a few of your things there. Just in case."

"Detective..." 

"It just gets late sometimes and you might want to stay instead of driving back to Lux and I have the extra room and..." she trails off clumsily, looking away. She feels like an idiot. She's not ready to sleep with him, no matter what she feels for him. But asking him to spend the night otherwise … Who does that? It makes her sound like an idiot, she's sure.

He touches her arm, drawing her gaze back to him. He slides his hand down her arm, catching her hand in his.

"Thank you for the offer," he says. "I accept."


	7. Epilogue

"Lucifer," Chloe says, eyes closed tightly, "I hate surprises."

They're in the Corvette, and from the speed of the wind, and traffic noise, they're on a side street. She's had her eyes closed for the past few minutes, protesting occasionally. It's dark outside, the sun having set an hour ago.

"I appreciate you humoring me," he replies.

"Where are we?"

"That would be telling, Detective."

She lets out a huff of air, sinking further in her seat. "At least tell me how much longer I have to sit like this."

"Almost there." The car turns, bumping slightly as it leaves the road. Nothing Chloe hears clues her in. It sounds like it could be anywhere in LA. A heavy truck rumbles by, an airplane roars overhead, traffic carries on, and somewhere, a dog barks.

The car stops, and she hears Lucifer's door open and close as he gets out. A moment later, her door opens, and he takes her hand. As she gets out of the car, he tucks her hand into the crook of his arm.

"This is ridiculous, Lucifer."

"Just a bit longer, please."

He leads her along slowly, directing her around obstacles and onto flooring that sounds like carpet under her feet. She hears laughter; a child's. He stops, and she hears something slide across a counter or table. Then he walks her forward another few feet.

"Open your eyes."

He stands in front of her, two sets of ice skates—one pair in black, the other in white—dangling from his fingers by the laces.

"What..." she says, but he's already stepping to the side, and she sees where he's brought her.

It's one of L.A.'s outdoor skating rinks. And it's decorated in nothing but little white fairy lights. They form a canopy overhead, and it's like the stars have been brought down to the city. The only occupant of the rink, a little girl—Trixie, she realizes—slowly skates, hand in hand with an attendant in a full tuxedo. She stares as music starts to play. 'A Sky Full of Stars.'

"Surprise," Lucifer says.

"How..." is all she can manage.

"Ms. Lopez may have mentioned you took lessons as a child."

"Yeah. I did. But this is … The city doesn't open this rink for another week."

"I called in a favor."

"Wow … this is … beautiful." She looks at him again. Two sets of skates. "You can ice skate?"

"A bit." He grins with an expression that says he's had _eons_ , Detective, do keep up. He gestures to a bench, and together they sit down and take off their shoes.

Chloe is lacing up her boots when Trixie spots her and starts shuffling toward them with the peculiar gait of a child just learning to skate. The attendant holds her hand until she reaches the edge, then steps off the ice with a nod at Lucifer.

"Mommy! Did you see me? I was ice skating!"

"I did, Monkey. You're doing great."

Chloe stands up, wobbling slightly on the blades as she relearns her balance. She walks from the bench across to the ice, stepping out onto the slick surface carefully. She pushes off and glides, and it all comes back to her.

She stops and turns back to Lucifer and Trixie, grinning. "Come on, you two."

Trixie grabs Lucifer's hand and leads him onto the ice, explaining how to push off with one skate and glide with the other. He listens seriously. Trixie pulls on his hand, and he pushes off like a perfect student, gliding out onto the ice.

"You've done this before!" Trixie says, giggling.

"Yes, Spawn, I have."

Trixie drops his hand, and with a wave and a _watch me, Mommy_ , heads for the center of the rink by herself.

Chloe dutifully watches her daughter as Lucifer skates up beside her, as graceful on the ice as off. He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it, and they start a slow lap around the rink. She quickly finds out that he's a competent skater. Nothing fancy, no spins or jumps, but at one point he turns to face her and skates backward, pulling her along with him, speeding up.

She's not sure how they get their signals crossed, but he stops, and she doesn't. She collides with him, and he wraps his arms around her to prevent her from falling. He releases her as soon she regains her balance, but she isn't having it.

She puts one hand up against his jaw, feeling the prickle of stubble against her palm. Then she slides her hand to the back of his neck and pulls him into a kiss. It's gentle and sweet and perfect.

In the background, Chloe hears Trixie laughing, and she breaks away from the kiss, keeping her hand on the back of Lucifer's neck. She presses her forehead to his.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"You're welcome, Chloe," he replies, wrapping his arms around her once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left feedback on this story; your comments mean the world to me.
> 
> Another _huge_ thank-you to Tarysande for the beta.
> 
> Come by my [Tumblr](http://orchidcactus.tumblr.com/) or [PillowFort](https://www.pillowfort.io/orchidcactus) and say hi to me. :)
> 
> If you liked this story, you might like the next story in the series, _Temblor_ , which can be found [here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17061077).


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